Front Yard (31 page)

“That's Mary. She's at Mertons'. Wants to know how many more bottles of Sagelands we need. So?”

“We don't need any. We've got scads of them. Even for us, it'd take years to get through our current stock.”

“I know, but we've made a new convert in Edith. She said no one could have conjured up anything as delectable as our 2007 vintage merlot. We need to help her spread the gospel. We also need to give her all the customer support we can so she won't have to take out any more loans our resident lending predator can gobble up. Wasn't it wonderful that she was able to take care of all her payments last summer with that one big lump sum? What an angel Marta was, lending her all that money, interest-free, and with all the Rose Maidens chipping in. I can't believe Dr. Sproot was charging her twenty-five percent interest! Why, that's usury!”

“I can believe it. And speaking of which.” George slowed to a crawl, pulled over to the curb, and craned his neck to see if Dr. Sproot was lurking anywhere in her front yard.

“Careful, George,” said Nan. “Remember what Marta said. Dr. Sproot owns a fully loaded BB gun, and she's not afraid to use it. She also said no one's seen her for ages. It's as if she fell off the edge of the earth.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said George.

There was no sign of Dr. Sproot. Neither was there any sign of her ruthless gardening energy, which should have been in evidence by now. Normally, she'd be amending the soil and fertilizing like nobody's business around this time of year.

“Maybe she's finally gotten the message,” said Nan. “A few months in the loony bin must have straightened her out. My gosh, George, look!” As George inched his way along the curb, they came up to a
FOR SALE
sign hammered into the ground.

“Well, that should solve that problem,” Nan said. “Unless she just picked up and moved somewhere else in Livia.”

“She did
not
spend several months in the loony bin. She got sprung the next day. Remember? And Miss Price's ancestors whisked her off to either Las Vegas or hell, we couldn't figure out which. How could you forget?”

“Nonsense. George, are you still on that flower Armageddon kick? I might have to have
you
committed if you keep this up.”

“Just keep your eyes on the weeds this year. I bet we don't have any. The sales of weed killer at Burdick's will drop to zero. That's because we vanquished the weeds from Livia just like Saint Patrick vanquished the snakes from Ireland.”

“Yes, well, we'll get the scoop on the good doctor when Marta comes over. My gosh, it
has
been ages since we've seen her. Where does the time go? It's that hard winter we had. Kept people indoors and out of sight. And maybe you'll want to put a lid on all this good-versus-evil talk, if you don't mind, please, George. Ah, speak of the devil.” Off went the wind chimes again. Nan stared intently at the text message on her smartphone, then put her thumbs in motion.

“Marta wonders when the best time to come would be,” said Nan. “I told her around three.”

The chimes jangled again.

“Good grief, who is it now?” said George.

“It's Jim. He can't make it. And guess what else?”

“He wants to do a sweep of our new yard before we start planting.”

“Of course.”

 

Back at the new place, George inched the Avalon into the spacious garage, next to where Cullen's new Honda Accord and Ellis's new Chevy Malibu would also be parked when the boys were home from college. They'd gone back for the last quarter a few weeks ago, after spring break ended.

Mary, still out running her errands, was home for the weekend after driving over the night before from Sap City. Having matriculated at Stanford, she soon discovered that her heart was in neither the marching band nor Palo Alto; she'd transferred to Headwaters State, intending to be the first student there to major in both jazz trombone and floriculture.

George was a little abashed at the size of the five-car garage. That would have been an almost unthinkable extravagance at the old place, in a neighborhood dominated by one-car tuck-unders and two-car detached garages. Nan had convinced him that they should splurge, but he had held out for a house size of no more than 2,700 square feet, the same size as the old place. She had countered by coming up with a wish list that specified new kitchen, walk-in closets, formal dining room, mudroom, and at least one bathroom with a Jacuzzi, to go along with the garage. She hadn't had to do much arm twisting to get George to agree. To accommodate all that, the house size had to expand to 4,500 square feet. They were lucky to find a home also furnished with a wine cellar big enough to accommodate their one thousand bottles of 2005, 2007, and now, 2010 Sagelands merlot.

Nan had not forsaken the out of doors. She had already bought a new set of furniture for a patio that came equipped with a built-in brick fireplace, bilevel deck, and even a built-in grill recessed into a freestanding brick column. George was happy to see that she had bought the furniture set on sale, and for 50 percent off, no less!

“We've got quite a job ahead of us, dear,” said Nan, as they waited for their guests. George filled her glass to the brim, then gave the bottle that no-spill little wrist turn he could do as deftly as any maître d' worth his salt in a four-star restaurant.

“Wouldn't mind if you cranked up some Tull, dear. Can't beat that
Songs from the Wood.
” George retreated inside the deck's sliding French doors, and seconds later, the waterproof speakers mounted under the roof eaves were booming “The Whistler.”

“Not that loud!” shouted Nan over Martin Barre's guitar and Ian Anderson's penny whistle. “Turn it down!” The volume adjusted to an acceptable level, George returned to his chair with that stealthy quickness that was so characteristic of him.

“Look at this yard. Why, it's all grass and trees. What were they thinking? Oh, and we need to get all the bird feeders up today. And the wren houses. They'll be scouting out locations in a few weeks, you know.”

“Will do,” said George. “Don't you worry, Nan-bee, I'm sure we'll be up to the task.”

Nan gazed disdainfully at the stump carving of Miguel de Cervantes, which, against her wishes, George had dug out of its spot in the old backyard and placed far too close to the deck, to Nan's way of thinking. A car pulled into the spacious driveway.

“First guest,” said Nan. “Look sharp there with the Sagelands, George.”

“Never a problem, Nan-bee.” Dr. Brockheimer was bounding down the sidewalk looking radiant and happy. She climbed up the wooden steps to the first level of the deck and plopped down in one of the Fremonts' new chairs, designed and manufactured by Scandinavians for the optimum in ergonomic comfort and well-being.

“Wow, Hilda! You look happy,” said Nan. “Glass of merlot?”

“Of course! Of course! And, George and Nan, refill yours, because we're going to have a couple of toasts.” George filled all their glasses and they lifted them up.

“And here's to . . .” began George.

“The first toast is for Ferd. He's off on a tremendous research project to determine once and for all which explorers got here before Columbus. China, Wales, England, France, Portugal, Scandinavia. World-class accommodations. It's a two-year project, for heaven's sake. He's in hog heaven.” The three of them clinked their glasses.

“Wonderful that the university will let him do this,” said Nan.

“University nothing,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “He's not getting any grant money either. It's all coming from some private investor who apparently has unlimited resources and an obsessive interest in the same subject.”

“We're so happy that you and Dr. Lick have reconciled,” Nan chirped. “Are you going along?”

Dr. Brockheimer laughed.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Our divorce went through. It was quite amicable. And Ferd has a new friend. It's his investor. He calls her his ‘sugar mama.' She's going along with him as his research partner. A woman, I'm told, who's been frequenting his office lately. Rumor has it she's come into a great deal of money recently. Inheritance, I suppose.”

George and Nan looked at each other and smiled.

“Well, there's the last of our mysteries unraveled,” said Nan.

“Pardon?” wondered Dr. Brockheimer.

“Oh, nothing, Hilda,” Nan said. “We're just glad to have all this buried-treasure business over and done with. And to be sitting here in this beautiful new location with full wineglasses in front of us and a vast palette of wonderful new gardening possibilities spread out before us.”

“Hear, hear,” said Dr. Brockheimer, raising her glass.

“And there's another?” wondered George.

“Sure is!” gushed Dr. Brockheimer. “Here's to having a best-seller. We just sold the plant-whispering book.”

“Didn't!” cried Nan.

“Did!” said Dr. Brockheimer. “The editor who bought it thinks it'll be
huge
. They're going to call it,
Talking to Your Plants: The George and Nan Fremont Way
.” Glasses clinked again.

“Oh, boy,” said George. “Another shot at fame. Just what we need.”

T
hanks to all the folks at Kensington for making me look good as an author. I'll single out editor Martin Biro especially for his judicious and insightful edits and suggestions. Martin is a shining example of how every author needs a good editor. The fact that he's unfailingly polite and patient has served to raise him even more in my esteem.

Literary agent Peter Rubie at FinePrint Literary Management has offered me sound advice on carving out a career as an author, and helps steer me on the right course of action when necessary.

In terms of research, a farcical novel such as
Front Yard
allows you by its very nature to treat accuracy with a blithe disregard much of the time. Still, I do like to get my gardening facts straight. For that, I lean on my friend and former colleague Mary Jane Smetanka, who brings the expertise of a master gardener to her perusal of my manuscripts. I will also mention a few others who helped by looking over sections of
Front Yard,
mostly to make sure I didn't write something that strayed too far from the realm of fictional possibility. They are: Sam Draper, whose experience as a tree company employee proved invaluable; Neil Anderson, professor of flower breeding and genetics at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities; Shaun David McGuinness, a PhD student in Welsh history at Bangor University, in Wales; and Paul Stone, assistant professor of history at the University of Minnesota's Humphrey School of Public Affairs. To them, I offer my thanks. In the case of Mr. McGuinness, I say,
Diolch yn fawr.

Special thanks, as always, to my family—wife Jennifer and sons Sam and Ed.

If you enjoyed
Front Yard,
be sure not to miss

 

 

A novel by Norman Draper

 

 

George and Nan Fremont have created a paradise in their backyard, complete with semi-hallucinogenic exotics and a comfy spot for drinking their favorite merlot. Marta Poppendauber's garden is as pleasantly haphazard as she is. And Dr. Phyllis Sproot, Livia's self-styled and cantankerous gardening expert, has determined the exact formula for the only correct garden possible.

But once Burdick's PlantWorld announces the garden contest to end them all, none of the gardeners of Livia can afford to live and let live. The Fremonts have almost gardened themselves into bankruptcy. Marta is the victim of black tea blackmail. And Dr. Sproot is turning into a horticultural megalomaniac of the worst kind.

The gardeners of Livia are digging up trouble with every turn of the spade, but if they can make it through the summer, who knows what might bloom?

 

A Kensington trade paperback and e-book on sale now!

Norman Draper
spent thirty-five years as a newspaper reporter before leaving journalism in 2011. An avid gardener in thought, if not in deed, he is always up to the task of uncorking a bottle of Sagelands 2007 merlot and checking in on his beloved Minnesota Twins. Draper lives in Bloomington, Minnesota, with his wife, Jennifer, and has two grown sons, Sam and Ed. Visit him on the Web at normandraper.com.